It is Time!

It is Time

Last week when we returned home from the family reunion in Cheyenne, Charlie literally spoke to me. He was so excited to see us. I really think he thought we were leaving for another seven-week trip, the fact that we were gone only two-and-a -half days was a tremendous relief to him. So, once again we pull out the old suitcase, apparently our new fashion statement for the season, and hug Charlie goodbye, as we are off to the mountains for our final few days of the sabbatical. I’m sure he is getting tired of all of this. Don’t tell anyone, but I’m not far behind.
FL and I are expected at the Snow Mountain Retreat in Fraser Colorado. If you are from Colorado, and you love to ski, snow mobile, hike or fish, you know exactly where that is. If you are not, let’s just say it is “in the mountains”. And if you are in the mountains in Colorado, you will see lots of beautiful scenery. There are the mountains, the hills, the aspen trees just beginning to take on their fall colors. There are rivers and streams and lakes with a fisherman here and there, standing knee deep in waders casting his line, hoping to catch that trophy size Rainbow Trout. There are green pastures, some with horses in them that are grazing along the fence line or even lying down just soaking in the sunshine as long as they possibly can until the temperatures suddenly drop with the cold night air.
I have mixed emotions about this four month sabbatical coming to an end. On the one hand, I am ready to get back into a “normal” routine. Whatever that means? But there is such finality to this entire experience. I am pretty sure it will be the last time FL and I spend this much time together until he retires. Ooh, I can’t believe that word is even ready to be spoken. “Retires?” Let me rephrase that. Until he retires as the proestamanos of a parish. I don’t think he will ever really retire. Priests are like the bunnies that keep on going, or the watch that keeps on ticking. As we drive up the mountain our trip is silent. “Michael Jackson’s Greatest Hits” is playing on the iPod. “Got to be there…..to be there, in the morning…” I love Michael Jackson. The young Michael Jackson. His songs always bring back memories of a time in my life when I was younger, fresher, less serious. I think he was on my first date singing “Puppy Love”, or “One Bad Apple”, when that ended. I am definitely a softie for “the oldies”. As I stare out the window at the landscape I think we are both contemplating how the past four months have affected us. You wouldn’t think that a four month sabbatical would be such a big deal. I mean, really. People travel all the time. People take vacations all the time. But this was more than that. First of all, it was an opportunity of a lifetime to visit all the places we’ve been; to imagine our grandparents or great grandparents walking the same paths we took. To stop and share this experience with our children, who will one day become us. Wondering what legacy we have left behind for them to hold on to and to pass on to their children’s children. But mostly, it was a time for FL and I to reconnect. To remind us of why we are together and what keeps us together. In 33 years of married life, serving God and parishioners of His church, has been the number one focus in our lives. Of course the family is his priority, but the focus is the Church. Even on a day off, or a vacation, her presence is felt. Sleeping at night with the phone next to the bed in case someone calls in an emergency – and they have. Scheduling birthdays, anniversaries, holidays around the church’s needs, not our own. And for the first time, the past four months – well, let’s not exaggerate, 3 months and maybe one week – our lives were our own. The focus was the family. WE laughed, yelled, built memories, and watched lots of sports. Again, there is such finality to that. Tonight, we will walk into a room of parishioners and the "new" season will begin. FL is ready. This is his flock. He cares for this alternate family of his. He is protective and he wants to serve them – (for the glory of God, as he would say). It is time.

The resemblance to any place we have traveled seems minimal as we drive through the Rocky Mountains. The high peaks have such an ominous presence. They are half covered in pines that have unfortunately been destroyed by the pine beetle, so rather than a forest of green; there is now a forest of brown with a little green. However, the new little shoots of pines seem to be standing tall and bright, almost exclaiming to their elders, not to worry, they have it covered and they will someday soon take their place. The rocky edges of the peaks are worn and jagged like the face of an old Indian Chief whose skin saw too much sun and wind. These peaks are the powerhouse of the Rockies. They almost come alive if you stare at them long enough. My father was a geologist. Whenever I drive through mountain ranges and valleys, I am reminded of the endless lessens told about the earth and her development; and why the mountains exist; and why they look like they do; and what type of rock the formation consists of; and whether it be from the Jurassic, or the Cambrian or pre-Cambrian era, or whatever! I smile, remembering how I rolled my eyes when he would begin the story and how I would turn my focus to the imaginary designs the clouds would make with their big fluffy sculptures that transformed into something different within minutes. Sorry dad, too much right brain for me. The small towns in the mountains have that reoccurring theme of a cross between the old west with their country stores or the mountain ski resort chic with designer boutiques and coffee shops.

Upon arriving at the lodge, we immediately change into warmer clothes because the mountain air has turned quite chilly, thus reminding me why I don’t visit the mountains more often. The first round of welcome begins at a campfire where everyone is roasting marshmallows for the ever famous Smores. Heartfelt greetings and hugs and kisses were in abundance. Saturday was filled with more mountain viewing, a little fishing and carb-filled meals of sausage and gravy, fried chicken and chocolate cake. We had more carbs for dinner and then the panoramic view of the valley stood still for our Vespers service. Everyone gathered for the “Every Generation” presentation which thankfully, they all seemed to enjoy. The evening closed out with another campfire session as the camp entertainers sang those age old songs that are loud and catchy and the children love…. “I said a boom chica boom…”! There were quite a few children attending and they seemed to be enjoying their freedom to run and play without the constrictions of home. Sunday we departed the camp grounds in the cool 25 degree temperature, heading toward Prophet Elias, a small church built over a century ago by generations before us. They chose this land because it reminded them of their homeland. Greek Americans from all over the Denver area would vacation up here in the summertime. I have heard great stories about multitudes of families coming together with their cooking utensils and homemade wines, sitting around on cool evenings. Someone must have brought up the idea that they should have a church here for Sundays. Being the generation that left home and the words “I can’t”, not being a part of their vocabulary – or “Ohi” as they probably said it, they built that church that represented who they were as a culture. Ironically, Father Lou, AKA--Pater Elias, was here on Sunday to serve his first Divine Liturgy with His parishioners in four months, at that church, Prophet Elias. He was back, he was comfortable in his surroundings. There was happiness in his heart as he addressed His flock. It was time.

Treveling down the mountain that afternoon, listening to the football game and then the baseball game on the radio, that replaced my “oldies but goodies”, I realized it was time for me too. It has been such a great ride. A journey, with memories that may fade as the years go by, but they will never die. Charlie --- we’re home!

Thank you God.